Notes from The Salisbury

 It is a typical weekday evening in the Salisbury. Outside, rain harries passers-by, badgering them from office to railway station.  Sharp gusts of wind lash the unwary with surprise sprays, turning umbrellas inside out, causing momentary staggers as they attempt to hold their footing. Inside, a group of goth-rockers silently gaze through the window as dark clouds shroud the city in gloom.  Stultifying boredom, that’s how they like it, that’s why they choose that particular corner to escape the downpour. Alfie Hoole is sitting at his usual place at the end of the bar.  Five pints into the night he looks up from his paperback.  The fat bloke on the fruity has dropped the jackpot at last.  That should keep him on there for another twenty minutes at least. Lemuel Cullen and Persephone Skink sit at the table by the fire cradling their drinks.  Not much is said, they have had a minor falling out again. Lemuel rises from his chair and feeds the jukebox with ten pounds worth of coins; he look